THE NEXT ONE TO DIE (English Edition): The crime classic!

By Victor Gunn

Murder in the quiet, dignified precincts of the Inner Temple, and Cromwell and Lister quickly follow a trail which leads to the ancestral home of the Earl of Ellsworth. They arrived to find the household in a state of panic... a phantom figure which heralds the death of an Ellsworth heir. A further death is swiftly followed by another attempt as murder...

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: Feb 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9783748775737

Book preview

VICTOR GUNN

THE NEXT ONE TO DIE

A novel

Apex-Verlag

Content

The Book

THE NEXT ONE TO DIE

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

The Book

Murder in the quiet, dignified precincts of the Inner Temple, and Cromwell and Lister quickly follow a trail which leads to the ancestral home of the Earl of Ellsworth. They arrived to find the household in a state of panic... a phantom figure which heralds the death of an Ellsworth heir. A further death is swiftly followed by another attempt as murder...

THE NEXT ONE TO DIE

Chapter I

THE LIGHT in the window of Mr. Henderson’s private office was so unusual that Jobling, the night porter, paused hesitatingly. True, it was only just seven o’clock, and the precincts of the Inner Temple were not entirely deserted; but old Mr. Henderson was so precise in his ways and habits that a light in his window at such a time was something that needed looking into.

»Queer,« muttered Jobling, frowning. Not once in years had he known the law firm of Henderson, Sayers and Henderson to work after hours. Nowadays, the firm consisted solely of Mr. Mark Henderson, his father having died thirty years ago. Mr. Sayers, the other partner, had been dead since the bomb incident of 1941. Although other fine buildings of the Inner Temple had been blasted during the war, Mr. Henderson’s chambers in No. 6a King’s Bench Walk, had escaped. They had remained virtually unchanged over two generations.

Mr. Henderson’s private office was typical of the man himself; austere, almost sombre, but redolent of the law in every crevice and cranny. Only the desk light was switched on, and the elderly lawyer sat there, writing busily. Outside, the distant rumble of London’s traffic was hardly noticeable; inside, the faint scratch of Mr. Henderson’s pen, and his slightly asthmatic breathing, were the only sounds that disturbed the silence.

Jobling, entering the fine old building, found the »oak« of Mr. Henderson’s chambers standing open. He knocked discreetly on the inner door, which was slightly ajar. There was no reply. Frowning, Jobling pushed the door open and peered into the room.

It was the outer office, deep in gloom, for no light was switched on. Ordinarily, the evening glow would have come through the windows, for it was far from being dark. Heavy clouds were in the sky, however, producing a premature dusk.

The door of the inner office was also ajar, and light streamed from it. Jobling moved heavily across and tapped on the door.

»Well? Who is it?« came a sharp, petulant voice. »Come in. Oh! It’s you, Jobling. Well, what is it?«

»Begging your pardon, Mr. Henderson...«

»Never mind begging my pardon,« said the old lawyer, gazing at the intruder over the top of his glasses. »You’re interrupting me. I’m very busy.«

»Yes, sir. I just wanted to be certain that everything was all right,« said the porter. »It ain’t dark yet, and when I see a light glowing in your window, I thinks maybe somebody has forgotten to switch off the light.«

»Nonsense,« said the old lawyer impatiently. »Whom would you expect to find here at this hour? You know perfectly well that Mr. Spenlowe always leaves at five-thirty.«

»Yes, sir, and you always leave at six.«

»Well, I haven’t left at six this evening,« said Mr. Henderson, waving a hand in dismissal. »Go away! Some very important work kept me at my desk, and you have to come interrupting when I’ve nearly finished. Be so good as to leave me in peace.«

Jobling felt surprised. As a rule, Mr. Henderson was benevolent and friendly. His present irritability was something quite exceptional.

»Didn’t mean to interrupt, sir,« said the porter, turning to leave. »But when I see your door standing ajar, I don’t like the look of it...«

»For heaven’s sake, Jobling, stop chattering and get out of here,« broke in the old lawyer. »Good heavens! Look at the time! I’d no idea it was so late.«

Having consulted his watch, he bent over his work again.

»If there’s anything I can do, sir...«

»Are you still here?« Mr. Henderson almost shouted. »I distinctly told you to go away...« He paused. »Wait. Yes, there is something you can do. Excellent, Jobling. Go to the nearest taxi rank and get me a cab. Make sure that you get a man who will be willing to make a fairly long journey. That’s important.«

»A long journey, sir?« asked Jobling, mystified.

»Good gracious, man, must I go into details?« snapped Mr. Henderson. »A long journey – twenty miles, at least. Some of these infernal cabbies object to long journeys.«

»Very good, sir.«

Jobling was an excellent man in every way, but he was not a very rapid thinker. He paused when he reached the door.

»A long journey, sir?« he repeated. »Wouldn’t it be better if you was to go by train? Taxis are expensive...«

»What?« Mr. Henderson looked up. »What did you say? Be a good fellow, Jobling, and go about your business. Oh, yes, of course, I asked you to get me a taxi, didn’t I? Well, have it here within ten minutes, if possible.«

Jobling shrugged and took his leave. He had never seen Mr. Henderson in this disturbed state of mind. The old gentleman was usually calm and placid, the very picture of a lawyer of the old school. This work which was keeping him late at the office must be something of exceptional importance.

Jobling emerged from the gracious old building and made his way across the open space in the direction of Crown Office Row. He had his own ideas as to the best way to reach a cab rank. The wide space across which he walked was practically bare of parked cars now. Most of the day it was packed with cars – a condition of affairs which Jobling deplored. In the old days, he reflected, these quiet precincts were never marred by such noisy intruders.

Reaching Crown Office Row, he glanced disparagingly at the new buildings – erected to replace those destroyed in the blitz. Jobling disapproved of them. In his opinion, they ruined the old-world atmosphere – and he was undoubtedly right. Passing into Middle Temple Lane he mounted the steps into Fountain Court, and made his way into Devereux Court, beyond. Instead of going straight through into Essex Street, he turned right up the alleyway, emerging in a couple of minutes into Fleet Street. An abrupt and dramatic change. The quiet and peace of the Inner Temple one moment, and the bustle and noise of traffic the next.

There was a cab rank near St. Clement Dane’s Church, and Jobling, waiting for a break in the traffic, moved heavily across to it. He was quite unaware of the fact that a figure, standing near the entrance to Figtree Court, had watched him as he had crossed from King’s Bench Walk – had continued to watch him until he had disappeared round the angle of Crown Office Row.

The watcher, once Jobling had passed out of sight, became active. He walked quickly across the open ground in the direction of Mr. Henderson’s chambers. He had been on the point of entering the old building, earlier, but had changed his plan on the approach of Jobling; he had seen Jobling enter and leave. Whatever the stranger’s business was, it was obviously something which demanded complete privacy.

He was tall, lithe, a nondescript figure in the gloom. He wore a long blue raincoat and a soft hat which came low over his forehead. Reaching No. 6a, King’s Bench Walk, he melted into the blackness of the entrance. At this hour of the evening there were few people about to observe the stranger’s movements – and at this particular minute, nobody at all.

In the entrance hall the man performed a peculiar act. He withdrew a pair of felt-soled slippers from his raincoat pocket, and slipped them over his walking shoes.

They had been especially selected for the purpose, and they fitted snugly.

Now, as silent as a shadow, his footsteps rapid, he mounted the stairs to Mr. Henderson’s chambers, which were on the first floor. He paused as though in surprise when he observed that the heavy oaken outer door was standing ajar. Apparently, he had been prepared to knock, in order to gain admittance. But this was much better. He entered, and closed the door after him. This was a direct hint to anybody who knew anything about lawyer’s offices, that the inmate did not wish to be disturbed.

The inner door was ajar, too, just as Jobling had left it. Chance seemed to be playing into the hands of the intruder – for it was not customary that both these doors should be left slightly open. The stranger paused for a moment to divest himself of the raincoat and the hat. He quickly donned headgear of another kind. Then he strode silently across the outer office and walked into Mr. Henderson’s sanctum. In spite of his felt-soled slippers, he made a slight sound – very noticeable in that quiet haven. The old lawyer, who was still writing, looked up with annoyance.

»Back already, Jobling?« he said. »What is it now? You can’t have found a taxi in this little time.«

The intruder remained silent. His eyes were fixed upon the legal-looking documents in the desk, upon which Mr. Henderson had been working.

»Well, Jobling?« said the lawyer, peering over the tops of his spectacles. »Why don’t you answer? Why...«

He broke off. There was a figure in the shadows beyond the desk, but it was not the stout, sturdy figure of the night porter. The only light in the room was cast by the table lamp – a little pool of brilliance, beyond which all was gloom. Mr. Henderson blinked in astonishment.

»Well? Who are you?« he asked sharply. »How did you get in here?«

Still the intruder remained silent. But he moved forward a couple of paces, a grim and frightening figure, like something out of a nightmare. Mr. Henderson made a queer choking sound as though the muscles of his throat had become paralysed. He started violently, every trace of colour draining from his kindly old face.

»Good God!« he whispered, in a strangled voice. »The Executioner!«

There was a note of incredulity, of stupefaction, in his voice, too. Obviously, the black figure in the shadows beyond the desk meant something to him. He appeared to recognise it, and the way in which he spoke the words, »The Executioner,« seemed to hint that he was familiar with the apparition.

And apparition it certainly was. The intruder stood there still frighteningly silent and now motionless. Black from head to foot. Even his hands were encased in black gloves. His face was concealed by a black mask, through which his eyes gazed upon Mr. Henderson with alert intensity. The figure was that of an executioner of the sixteenth or seventeenth century. He might have materialised straight out of the Tower of London.

Mr. Mark Henderson was a quiet, placid, benevolent man, but an expression of savage anger now came over his face. The first shock was over.

»In God’s name, what is the meaning of this buffoonery?« he demanded. »Who are you? Don’t imagine, for one moment, that I am deceived by this nonsense.«

While speaking, he pulled open the top drawer of his desk, and thrust a hand inside...

It was a fatal action. The black figure, almost motionless until this moment, acted. There was a flash of something in the lamplight, a thud, and the old lawyer fell back in his chair without a sound, except for a faint, gasping sob. Protruding from his waistcoat, in the region of the heart, was the hilt of a queer-looking dagger. The blade was invisible. It had buried itself in the unfortunate man’s body. With such force had the dagger been flung, and with such deadly accuracy, that Mr. Henderson had died in the split of a second.

With a muttered curse, the Executioner moved round to the other side of the desk and finished the motion which Mr. Henderson had started; he pulled open the drawer. Within, lay a heavy ebony ruler.

»Hell! I might have known!«

The dreadful crime he had just committed had no apparent effect on his nerves. If anything, he seemed pleased with his grim handiwork, for his eyes glowed approvingly as he viewed the still twitching corpse.

Then he busied himself on the task which was the object of his visit. He gathered up the documents from the desk – those legal papers on which Mr. Henderson had been working. A very brief examination told the intruder precisely what they were. A black deed-box, with its lid open, stood on the desk. A name was neatly painted on its front – now shabby with age. It contained more documents, and the grim intruder examined them hurriedly. He selected, and removed, only two. Then he closed the box, and placed it on a shelf with many others of a similar character.

From the moment of the stranger’s entry until now, only three and a quarter minutes had elapsed. His work was done. He left the inner office, and paused in the little lobby. Here, he quickly removed his mask and headgear, and wriggled into his raincoat, which completely concealed his strange garb. Pausing only to remove the felt slippers, he then walked calmly and leisurely down to the main exit, and made off in the direction of Mitre Court, emerging a minute later into Fleet Street.

Five more minutes elapsed before a taxi drew up in front of No. 6a, King’s Bench Walk. Jobling climbed out of it with his characteristically heavy movements.

»Wait here, mate,« he said to the driver. »I’ll go and tell Mr. Henderson.«

»While you’re about it,« said the cabby, »tell him that I shall expect a bit extra if it ain’t going to be a double journey. Twenty miles, or more, out into the country, ain’t any good to me. How do I get a fare on the way back?«

Jobling made no answer. He understood why Mr. Henderson had been so particular about selecting an amenable cabby. Even this man, after accepting the commission, now seemed doubtful. However, the porter climbed the stairs slowly and laboriously, and found the doors of Mr. Henderson’s chambers exactly as he had left them. He passed through to the inner office.

»Cab’s here, sir,« he announced puffily. »Wasn’t too easy to find a driver who’d agree... Hey! Mr. Henderson! Good God!«

The last two words were uttered in a shout of consternation and horror. Jobling had addressed his opening remarks to the figure which sat behind the desk, and it was not until he had moved closer that he saw that there was something unnatural and fearful in the old lawyer’s expression. Even without verifying the fact, Jobling knew that he was looking on a dead face. Then he saw the haft of the dagger...

He stumbled out of the room, trembling in every limb. He had not waited to make an examination. The sight of the dagger had been enough. Nearly falling down the stairs in his agitation, he reached the exit and lumbered across to the taxi.

»He’s dead – murdered!« he panted hoarsely.

»Come off it!« said the taximan. »What’s the matter with you, dad – gone barmy? Blimey! You look bad.«

»Mr. Henderson – up there – lying back in his chair with a dagger in his chest,« faltered Jobling. »Look, mate, go and fetch a copper – quick. You can find one quicker than I can. I’ll phone while you’re away.«

He did not wait for the startled cabby to make any reply, but hurried away to his own domain. Here he dialled 999, and huskily gave the dreadful information. Having hung up, he paused only to wipe the sweat from his brow before dialling another number in the Fulham area. In a very few moments he heard the voice of Mr. Horace Spenlowe, who was Mr. Henderson’s chief clerk.

»Yes, sir,« said Jobling, after he had given the facts. »He’s dead, sir. Can you come at once?«

»But... but this is perfectly appalling, Jobling,« came the agitated voice of the chief clerk. »Are you sure you’re right? Mr. Henderson dead? Did you say murdered?«

»Look, sir, it won’t do no good to talk on the telephone,« said Jobling, who was still very distressed. »All I want you to do is to get here as quick as you can.«

Meanwhile, the machinery of the law was getting into rapid motion. The cabbie returned to King’s Bench Walk with an officer of the City Police; the 999-call resulted in immediate activity at New Scotland Yard. The information, passed from one quarter to another, finally resulted in orders being given to Chief Inspector William Cromwell, of the Murder Squad, who had been on the point of going home after a hard day.

»Hell,« said the chief inspector, »and blast! Why does it always have to be me?

This means no supper and no ruddy sleep!«

»Hard luck, Old Iron,« said Detective Sergeant John Lister, who was his assistant. »Hard luck on both of us. I was going to introduce you to a particularly ripe supper joint down Chelsea way...«

»Were you, indeed?« interrupted Cromwell. »I seem to have had a merciful escape. You and your ripe supper joints! Ring down for a car to be ready.«

»No need. We can go in mine.«

The immaculate Johnny Lister, who had entered the police force as a career, was the fortunate possessor of a handsome private income from his father, and he was able to indulge in expensive cars. His latest acquisition was a lively Aston Martin saloon.

The man known to his colleagues as »Ironsides« strode out of his office with a malevolent expression on his forbidding face, for he hated being roped in on a lastminute investigation. That expression of his was something of a fraud, for he was not nearly so malignant as he looked. He was a fraud in other ways. He appeared to be much older than his actual years, and when it came to stamina and agility, he was fully the equal of his young assistant. That long, lean frame of his was composed of muscles like whipcord, and his keen brain was concealed behind the mask of sour indifference he habitually adopted.

After certain orders had been given, the Scotland Yard pair went down to Johnny’s parked car, and set off for the Temple. It was a brief ride along the Embankment. Leaving the car, they walked, and just inside the Tudor Street Gate they were overtaken by a tubby little man who was apparently in a great hurry.

»I think I know you,